Daughter of the Night
by Nopride4531
Summary: Brynjolf's life was going relatively well, but when a young girl suddenly appears quite literally out of thin air, spouting some nonsense about a different world, it is put on hold as he takes it upon himself to teach her to survive. But he soon learns that there's more mystery to her than he ever could imagine, especially when the Gods seem to have plans of their own for her...
1. Introduction

**Hello everyone and welcome to my very first Skyrim fic!**

**I've never really written something like this for a game, so please bear with me with the minor details and whatnot.**

**Please please please let me know what you think of this! I really appreciate feedback!**

**And without further ado, here's the fic!**

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**TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR LATER CHAPTERS PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING: This story might be rated M in later chapters for many things that a lot of people consider upsetting. These things include but are not limited to thoughts/mentions of suicide, severe depression, and harm OCD. As of the next chapter, they will start to appear. If reading this already makes you anxious, I am so, so sorry, but I had to include it. **

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It was a rather slow day in Riften.

But then again, that's how things were going recently. Barely stifling a yawn, Brynjolf sighed at his place in the market stall and absently ran a hand through his fiery hair. Six months. Six bloody months. That's how long it had been since the Guild had had a decent haul. No coin, no jewels, no gold... they were being bled dry and it seemed like there wasn't a damned thing they could do about it. Ol' Delvin thought it must be some kind of curse and despite not being a religious man, Brynjolf couldn't say that a part of him didn't believe him. After all, he had a point. Plain old bad luck didn't last this long and even if it could, there was always something to break the streak.

His market ruse wasn't exactly raking in that much coin either. Day after day he stood in that damnable stall and day after day he made next to nothing. People had started to catch on to his scheme—not that it was much of one anyway. He was a thief, not a con-artist, although some might argue that they were the same thing. But they weren't. While both professions required those with silver tongues, thieves relied more on stealth. Con artists, on the other hand, were more inclined to use their honeyed words and tricky lies to seal a deal. But the most significant difference was that con artists were technically not doing anything illegal; if a client fell for a shabby product, it was their own fault. That in itself made it a much safer, less exciting career, one that he definitely wouldn't prefer.

Pursing his lips, he drummed his fingers against the wooden frame of the stall, green eyes capturing nearly everything that happened in the market. No small detail escaped him, however slight it was. Madesi's quick smirk as he roped in another customer, Grelka's voice sounding angrier than usual, Brand-Shei's apparent discomfort... he processed it all, absorbing the information like a sponge in a pool of water. It was a useful skill that he'd picked up, perfected, and polished over the years. He never let it grow dull, couldn't risk it. Who knew when someone with potential would come waltzing into the city and bring with them a breath of much needed fresh air? He couldn't let that slip through his fingers. Divines knew that the Guild needed a recruit with actual skill.

He sighed and nodded his head at Maven Black-Briar as she passed by, her signature scowl prominent on her face. She didn't even look at him as she continued on her way, not giving any sign that she'd seen him other than an almost imperceptible wave of her hand. Well, imperceptible to everyone except Brynjolf, who frowned and somehow resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew that Maven would see it. She saw _everything_, perhaps more than he did. Angering her was the last thing he _ever_ wanted to do. They _needed_ the Black-Briars on their side because as of lately, they were the only thing keeping the Guild together. If they lost them, they were finished.

But Divines help whoever was stupid enough to cross them.

Speaking of, he could hear Brand-Shei rambling on and on about his useless junk that was probably even more of a scam than his elixir. Brynjolf shook his head sadly and leaned forward on the stall. The poor dark elf's luck was about to run out and rather quickly at that. He'd done something or another—probably forgotten to pay back a loan—that had pissed Maven off and in a few precious days, he was going to pay his debt in full... and then some. Of course, Brynjolf actually needed a recruit to get the job done, but he wasn't too concerned about that. It should be relatively easy to find someone adept enough to pull off such a simple task. Yet then again, with the way things had been going recently, it might be safer to just do it himself. If anything, it would definitely save him some coin.

After a couple more hours of mindless waiting, he decided to pack up his things and leave, hoping that he'd have more luck in the morning. Locking up his sham of an elixir, he stepped out of his stall and into the open marketplace, happy to finally be rid of that dreadful ruse. He closed the gate behind him and took a deep breath, the filthy air polluting his lungs. He coughed and narrowed his eyes in annoyance, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he had a few minutes ago. The city had that effect on everyone with its murky canals and the dreary atmosphere the people projected. It's not like Riften was known for being a bustling urban trade center with impressive feats of architecture and towering stone walls to protect it. No, those specialties were saved for metropolises such as Solitude and Whiterun, whose inhabitants wouldn't know a hard day's work even if it was dangling right in front of their face.

Not that he was complaining. To him, Riften was a fine city, ripe with golden opportunities and unwary travelers that had riches beyond his wildest dreams. So what if it wasn't what it used to be and had also picked up quite the sinister reputation? It was his home and he'd be damned if he thought that it wasn't a bloody good one at that.

He smiled and began walking toward the entrance to the Guild, previous tiredness forgotten as he thought of the mead back at the Flagon. The other merchants were beginning to pack up as well, apparently having decided that enough was enough for the day. A part of him felt sorry for them, working their dead end jobs with no real prospect of excitement or wealth. He just didn't understand how they could do it. If selling his elixir was his only profession, he'd most certainly go mad. He needed—craved even—adventure like a fish needed water. There was absolutely no way that he could live without it and he'd definitely tried a few times. A normal life, one that wasn't filled with lying, cheating, or stealing, had sounded decent a couple of years ago. And perhaps a couple of years ago, he could have done it. Settled down, fallen in love, raised children, quit drinking, the works. And maybe, just maybe, he would've been happy.

But that sort of thing wasn't meant for him. He would always be a thief at heart. He loved what he did and all that it encompassed, whether it was obtaining more gold than he could carry or getting thrown in jail for a few nights. He didn't care. As long as he still felt the thrill that came with it, he was content to spend the rest of his life picking pockets and robbing houses. And if that meant that he couldn't do all the things that someone with a normal life could, then so be it. He would much rather do what he loved than live in a world that was boring and dull.

Of course, not that the Divines would ever allow _anything_ in his life to be like that. For some odd reason, they seemed to enjoy throwing tumultuous situations in his path. Like the time he was on what was supposed to be a simple sweep job and there turned out to be a bloody_saber cat_ in the house. _That_ had ended with him having to explain to the Morthal guards why he was seen exiting the premises sporting a bloody arm and towing an animal carcass behind him. He'd later found out that the Companions had been called in to take care of the problem _prior_ to him finding out about the job. He'd very nearly _killed_ Vex for giving him that particular heist in the first place, but Delvin, who'd been pining for her affections at the time, had managed to calm him down before he could. So honestly, it was only a matter of time before the Gods did something _else_ to him, something that he might not be able to handle as well as the saber cat.

And as it turned out, it came in the form of a high pitched, blood curdling scream.

He froze at the sound, chills running up and down his spine as it continued to cut through the air, sharp like the crack of a whip. Narrowing his eyes, he turned around and looked in the direction of the Keep, certain that the scream was coming from there. Through the thick fog that hadn't burned off, he could just barely make out the outline of two Riften guards advancing toward a much smaller, feminine figure. From what he could tell, she was sprawled out on her back on the stone steps of the Keep, desperately trying to crawl away from the two men in front of her. Another scream wrenched itself from her throat and, much to his surprise, he felt white hot fury begin to surge through his veins. Couldn't they see that the poor girl was frightened?

Making sure to stick to the shadows, he slowly crept along the small stone wall that surrounded the marketplace. People, mostly women, had started to gather around the scene, likely wondering what all of the commotion was. Some of them, like Drifa Honey-Hand, had looks of pity on their faces while others, such as Grelka, only showed scorn and contempt. The guards' expressions were hidden behind their helmets, but Brynjolf somehow knew that they were marked with fearsome scowls. He let out an exasperated sigh as he moved nearer to the crowd, the girl's features becoming more and more pronounced the closer he got. He stopped when he was just behind the others, but at an angle that he could still determine what was going on. From that distance, he could see that she was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, and was absolutely, completely _hysterical_. Her breaths came in short, frantic gasps and her eyes, green as a malachite ore, flicked nervously to and fro. For one brief, fleeting moment, they met his own, practically _begging_ for him to help in any way that he could. And, despite his shields and best efforts, he felt something shift inside of him, something that he'd thought to be immovable.

Yet he remained rooted where he was standing, wanting nothing more than to just leave the scene, but unable to look away. The girl, who had apparently given up on trying to ask for assistance, turned her attention back to the guards, resolve mixing with the terror on her face.

"Get away from me!" She demanded in a voice that, although shaky, was actually quite strong. "I—I haven't done anything wrong!"

He couldn't help but marvel at her ability to reign in her emotions and speak through them clearly enough to convey what she wanted. Most people that he'd seen being harassed by the guards either fought back and were consequentially killed, or immediately surrendered like cowards. But her? She was smart, relying on her words to make a decent case for herself.

"State your intentions, citizen!" One of the guards nearly shouted in his thick Nordic accent. He moved forward until the tip of his sword was touching her chest, not hard enough to draw blood, but plenty to show that he was serious. "How did you get here? What's your business in Riften?"

She regarded the blade with wide, startled fawn's eyes and struggled to back away, only to have her back hit solid stone. Her dark, messy brown hair stuck to her head as she spun around to see what had barred her escape. It was as straight and long as a raven's feather, but its short length did not make her seem any less feminine. The muddy color only served to heighten the paleness of her face, which in turn made her green gaze appear to glow. Carefully, she pushed a few stray strands behind her ears, something that Brynjolf determined to be a nervous habit, and directed her attention back to the men before her.

"I don't _know_ how I got here!" She said exasperatedly, raising her hands above her head, palms open toward them. "And look: I'm unarmed. No gun, no knife, no sword. So even if I _wanted_ to try anything, I wouldn't be _able_ to. Not like this." She slowly lowered her hands so as not to startle them. "Now please," she begged. "Just stay back."

For a moment, it seemed like the guards were actually going to listen to her. One of them even began to sheath his weapon, but was stopped by his companion, who took another menacing step forward and raised the sword from her chest until it was hovering just above her throat. She visibly swallowed as what looked like betrayal passed over her face, twisting her resolve back into terror.

"I haven't _done_ anything!" She exclaimed loudly, almost shrieking it. Hysterics settled in once again as her body began to shake uncontrollably, making it look like she had hypothermia rather than fear. "You—you can't _do_ this! I have _rights _that say I can legally sue the living backside off of you! I'll—my family, we'll take this to court, just you wait and see! You'll lose _everything_!"

Brynjolf felt himself smirk at her last statement, though he doubted that the two guards were sharing his feelings of amusement. Wanting to get a better grasp on the situation, he slowly moved further and further away from the wall until he was completely enveloped in the thinning crowd. There, he had a perfect view of the scene unfolding before him and could therefore either continue to watch it, or intervene should the need arise. He didn't think that he'd have to; the girl seemed perfectly capable of handling herself, as her somewhat bold personality conveyed. But still, he had to admit that sassing the guards might have her treading on some mighty thin ice.

_Smart, lass,_ he thought and chuckled, drawing a couple of dirty looks from the few women that were sympathetic toward her. _Threaten the man who's holding a sword to your throat. That'll definitely end well for you._

Despite everything, though, he couldn't deny the fact that the guards' behavior toward the girl was starting to get on his nerves. By the Eight, she was just a _child_ and a clearly terrified one at that. While he may not be the most friendliest of people at times, even _he_ knew when things were going too far and threatening someone who was just barely old enough to be considered an adult in Skyrim was seriously pushing it.

"I think you need to come with us," the other guard said, startling Brynjolf out of his thoughts. He grabbed a hold of the girl's arm and rather roughly hoisted her to her feet, eliciting a surprised yelp from her. She jerked upward like a rag doll, swaying as if the slight breeze in the air was going to knock her back down, and struggled to pull away. The guard held her firmly in place and began to tow her toward the entrance to the Keep, nearly having to drag her just to get her to move.

"Perhaps a night in a cell will help jog your memory," his partner murmured with a laugh as he grasped her other arm and Brynjolf didn't even need to see his face to know that he was grinning wickedly. "I hope you'll be more _cooperative _in the morning."

Wide, panicked eyes once again met Brynjolf's, this time pleading with everything they had. "Don't just _stand _there!" She shouted frantically as the two guards began to drag her up the stairs. "_Help me!_"

To his utter astonishment, he found himself taking a step forward. He actually took a step _forward_. Not a small one, either, but a big one, one that nearly brought him to the front of the crowd. But, for reasons unknown to him, he stopped a few feet away and watched as her expression morphed from terrified astonishment to intense anger.

"Fine!" She yelled and ceased struggling. "Do absolutely _nothing_!" Her eyes briefly left his to scan the rest of the crowd, but returned just as fast as they'd left. "If they hurt me, it'll be on _your_ conscience!"

The resolve was back in her voice, strong and sharp like the blade of a knife. With one last furious glance at the onlookers, she turned her head toward the Keep and allowed the guards to guide her up the steps without any resistance. When they reached the door, she obediently stood aside while they opened it and stepped through once they were finished. The second it closed behind them, the crowd dispersed, most of its members going back to their respective homes. It was not too late, but dark enough for the merchants to shut down their stalls for the night and they did so muttering among themselves. Some of them shook their heads in pity and shame, likely regretting not having done anything to help the girl, while others merely continued with their lives, barely giving her a second thought.

Brynjolf, however, wasn't doing either. As he stood alone against the wall of the Keep, his mind ran busily with calculations. The girl... she had more spirit than anyone he'd seen breeze through the city in a long time. Of course, she was outwardly meek and timid, as demonstrated by her refusal to stand up for herself, but he'd come to find out through years of observation that those traits usually masked hidden potential. Her intelligence could also be a valuable asset to the Guild; been a while since they'd had someone who possessed actual intellect. Most of the recruits that turned up were about as smart as a skeever and ended up costing them more coin than they brought in.

A bunch of idiots, that's what they were. Pig-headed, fame-craving idiots. Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure why Mercer kept letting him bring in new blood, what with all of the failures most ended up being. But the girl? She could be exactly what they needed. Not too headstrong, but as smart as a whip. She would have to be trained—Divines knew she'd probably never broken the law in her life—but that would be relatively simple. Delvin and Vex could teach anyone to do anything, so as long as it had to do with larceny, and he could probably give her a few lessons in self defense. Put all of it together and they could have a very capable recruit.

With his mind made up, Brynjolf turned and began to jog up the steps of the Keep with an extra burst of energy in his pace. His boots made no sound against the stone as he went with a sense of determination that he hadn't felt in a long time. The only sound that escaped his body was his quick, easy breathing, which was not at all affected by his physical exertion. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Brand-Shei watching him with a slight smile of relief on his face, but couldn't be sure; he was already through the heavy wooden door before he even had time to turn around and check.

Inside, he slowed to a walk and looked around the interior of the Keep, his bright green eyes scanning for details that could assist him. There was no sign of the girl or the guards that had dragged her off, but that was to be expected; it wasn't like they were easily distinguishable from their comrades. No, the ridiculous Stormcloak uniforms made them all look one and the same, which caused it to be rather difficult to know who had been where and, more importantly, who had seen what. Keeping them quiet had never exactly been easy, but this? This brought the word 'challenge' to a whole new level.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed as he caught sight of the Jarl sitting in her throne with her head turned toward her steward. Honestly, he liked Laila just fine, but her sense of self-righteousness and 'honor' sometimes made him want to set himself on fire. And though he claimed not to have a preferred take on the war, he had to admit that siding with the Stormcloaks was a bloody stupid idea. Why be on the losing team when you could join the Empire and probably profit more from it? It just didn't make any sense.

But that was a small quibble of his. In truth, she was a fair leader and, despite her full name, was completely incompetent when it came to managing the Guild's presence in her city. As long as she stayed out of their business, he had no major problem with her.

"My Jarl," he addressed as he approached her, struggling hard to keep the insincerity from leaking into his voice. "I wanted to—"

"This better not be another attempt to get me to buy that useless elixir of yours, Brynjolf," she hissed and leaned forward with her arms resting on the sides of her chair. "Because this time, I will _not_ hesitate to have you arrested."

"I wouldn't think of it," he replied with his hands raised in a calming gesture. "I just wanted to ask you about what happened earlier."

Confusion drew a shadow over her face. "What?"

"The girl," he said exasperatedly, already feeling himself growing irritated. "The one that your guards just brought in. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to know what's become of her."

She frowned and slowly sat back in her chair, a perplexed look in her eyes. As he stood there, waiting, she whispered something to her steward, Anuriel, before turning back to him with a scowl.

"Why do you care?"

Her tone was cold, yet so undeniably curious that he ended up smiling. "Would you believe that I have a shred of decency?"

"No."

He couldn't say that he hadn't been expecting that answer. Laila Law-Giver was known for being as stubborn as a mule. To have believed that he would get what he wanted from the get go would've been foolish. No, he would have to resort to other means of getting the information, means that involved carefully crafted sentences that could win the heart of any person he used them on. Means that involved, well, lying, to put it simply.

"Alright then," he muttered tiredly in what he hoped was a convincing tone. "She's a good friend of mine's daughter. He's off in Morrowind on business and I promised him that I would look after her for a while."

"And her mother?" She asked, apparently not happy with his statement. The questioning glint in her eyes morphed into skepticism as she studied him up and down. "I would think that she'd stay with family before someone she barely knows."

"Her mother works for a wealthy merchant in Cyrodiil and lives with him and his wife almost full time. She couldn't get the necessary days off in order to take care of her."

"Any other relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings? Anyone else that she could live with?"

"No, no, no, and no. Grandparents are dead, parents are estranged from their kin, and she's an only child."

Next to her, Anuriel murmured something too low for normal people to hear, but loud enough for Brynjolf's trained ears. "My Jarl," she said in a voice as soft as a rabbit's pelt. "I do believe he's telling the truth."

Laila seemed nonplussed, but nevertheless decided to hear her steward out, reason warring with logic in her mind. "Oh? And why's that?"

"Why would he lie about this? It's not like we're dealing with a suspected murderer or thief. She's a frightened young girl who was unfairly harassed by _your_ guards just because she surprised them."

"And as for her appearing out of thin air?"

"She's studying Illusion," Brynjolf stepped in, earning himself an annoyed glare from the Jarl. "She wants to join the College of Winterhold."

It was obvious that both women hadn't known that he'd been eavesdropping, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Every minute that passed by was a minute of his life wasted—a minute of the _girl's_ life wasted—and he was steadily growing tired of Laila's incessant questions.

"I don't think my friend would very much appreciate his daughter being locked in a cell," he said, eager to speed the conversation along. "She's the light of his life and he's quite protective of her. So if we're done here..."

Despite still appearing unconvinced, Laila nodded her head and then rested it against her hand. "Very well," she said and waved one of her guards over with a flick of her wrist. "Alf, please escort this man to the cells. The girl's debt has been paid. Be sure to check that his story clears and give the child my sincerest apologies for the way she was treated."

Brynjolf smiled and turned to follow the man called Alf, but stopped about halfway as a thought entered his mind. "What will become of the guards that brought her in?" He asked and frowned, hoping that the Jarl would live up to her name. "They can't just be—"

"Don't push your luck, Brynjolf," Laila responded, narrowing her eyes and hardening her voice. She met his gaze fearlessly and with the power that being in charge brought. "They will be punished accordingly. Now leave before I change my mind and have Alf throw you out."

As someone who knew when not to test the waters, he nodded and tipped his chin in thanks to her. Directing his attention once more to the guard, Brynjolf began to follow him past the throne and through another heavy wooden door. From there, the path forked, one side leading to Anuriel's chambers (not that he would know) and the other to the Guard Barracks. They took the one on the left, Brynjolf trailing slightly behind Alf, a little apprehensive about being around so many Stormcloak soldiers. After all, he was a thief. Any one of them could recognize him. All it would take was a small detail that he'd forgotten to cover on a heist and he would join the girl in the cells.

Shaking his head, he stopped as they finally reached the barracks, the musty smell immediately wafting through his nose. Although it was nothing compared to the stench of the Cistern, it was enough to make Brynjolf's stomach churn and he had to fight to refrain from voicing his disdain. Alf didn't seem to mind as he led him down the steps deeper into the ground, apparently having gotten used to everything a long time ago. They descended further until the stone finally leveled off, much to Brynjolf's relief. Wrought iron cages were scattered about the room, rusty, filthy, and intimidating, and almost immediately, his eyes landed on the girl in one of them. She was shivering, but whether it was from fear or the damp chill in the air, he didn't know. She was sitting as far back as the cage would allow with her legs folded underneath her body in an attempt to make herself appear smaller. Her chopped, messy hair was slicked with panicked sweat against her cheeks and didn't move when she lifted her head to stare at him, hope lighting up her face like a candle. He met her gaze with what he hoped was a comforting smile and carefully walked over to the cell, making sure to still stick behind Alf.

"Hello, Lass," he said gently and motioned for Alf to unlock the door. "Gotten yourself in a bit of a snare, eh?"

She remained silent, but slowly got to her knees and then her feet, a look of confusion on her face. Her eyebrows were slightly knitted together in half of a frown as she gripped the bars of the cage tightly in her hands. She regarded Alf with surprise as he stuck the key in the lock and turned it, the tumblers clicking a moment later, and didn't move when the door swung open. Her frown deepened as she gazed at the freedom that stood before her only a few steps away, easily within her grasp. She opened her mouth to say something, contemplated it for a while, and then shut it again as she gingerly stepped out of the cell. She regarded Brynjolf warily, but nevertheless stood by his side as Alf shut the door once again.

"The Jarl sends her deepest condolences for the way you were treated," the Stormcloak murmured in his thick Nordic accent and the girl flinched back, seemingly astounded by the tone. "And I would like to pass on mine as well."

Although his eyes were hidden behind his helmet, Brynjolf could tell that he was being sincere. He found himself smiling as the girl nodded and stepped out from behind him, her stance still clearly defensive, but a little less so. With her hands firmly shoved in her pockets, she gazed at the ground and absently drew a circle with her foot, obviously waiting for one of them to say something else.

"Have you ever seen this man before?" Alf asked and motioned his head at Brynjolf. "Do you know him?"

It took a while, but she eventually nodded again, albeit a little unsure. She looked up at where the Stormcloak's eyes should have been, her pale face gaining some color as he took off his helmet to reveal kind, soft features. Alf smiled down at her and knelt until he was at eye level, practically having to sit just to reach it. Brown orbs met green ones as he held out his hand to shake, making sure to complete the action slowly so as not to startle her.

"Alf," he said when she grasped it loosely in her own hold. "And you are?"

She didn't say a word, hardly gave any sign that she'd even heard him except for withdrawing her hand.

"That's okay," he said as he stood. "You'll talk when you're ready."

He turned to Brynjolf and put his helmet back on, a slight look of contempt forming on his face, and the red headed Nord returned it halfheartedly, knowing that the Stormcloak was just concerned for the girl. Sighing, Alf waved good-bye to her and trotted up the stairs to return to his post, seeming reluctant to leave. The dull thunk of a door shutting was heard a few moments later and, when there was only complete silence, Brynjolf turned to the girl and said,

"Come on, Lass. Let's get out of here."

Getting her to follow him was a little difficult; the poor thing was scared stiff and shaking so hard that her teeth were chattering. It took a lot of gentle coaxing, but he finally managed to get her to move enough to walk out of the dungeon and into the fresh air of the city. Sensing that she wouldn't particularly care for the Cistern, he led her to the Bee and Barb, ignoring the surprised, curious stares from the people around them. The trip was short and silent, despite Brynjolf's poor attempts to start a conversation, and when they reached the tavern, she froze once more at the sight of Keerava.

"What in the blazes do you want, Brynjolf?" She hissed and he sighed. The Argonian was definitely not too happy to see him.

"Just a room," he responded, keeping his voice carefully clipped. "And whatever is in the cooking pot."

The girl stood behind him with her hands tightly clasped in front of her, perhaps acting like some sort of shield. Slowly, Keerava's eyes turned to her and regarded her with surprise. "Who are you, child?"

"My friend's daughter," Brynjolf cut in as the girl shrank back. "He's away on business. Now are you going to give me what I asked for, or do I have to _convince_ you?"

Begrudgingly, Keerava handed him a key and a steaming bowl of beef stew before going back to the mug she'd been cleaning when they walked in. He nodded his thanks and led the girl upstairs to her room, walking at practically a snail's pace so that she could keep up with him. When they reached it, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside, handing her the stew and the key afterward.

"Lock this door," he said as she stared at him. "Don't open it for anyone except me. Understood?"

She nodded.

"Smart lass," he muttered and grinned. "I'll be back in the morning. For now, you should eat and get some rest. You've had quite the day."

He turned to leave, but stopped as a small, quiet voice reached his ears.

"Stella."

He glanced back at her. "What?"

"My name," she said, more strongly this time. "It's Stella."


	2. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone and welcome back to Daughter of the Night! First of all, thank you so much for reading, reviewing, liking, and following this story. It really means a lot to me and I couldn't write this without you guys. **

**As a quick heads up, I'll be (trying to) updating this story every other week, hopefully on a regular schedule. **

**Well, that's about it. On with the fic!**

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The first thing Stella noticed as she slowly came into consciousness was that she was most certainly not alone.

With a groan, she shifted her weight on to her right side and rolled over until she was lying flat on her stomach. As she mumbled something incoherent, she slid her arms under her pillow and burrowed deeper into the thick animal furs that served as her blankets. She _hated_ mornings, hated them with a passion that rivaled the Montague's and Capulet's. They brought her nothing but another day to work through until she was too tired to even put up a fight anymore. Who in their right mind would _ever_ give up precious hours of sleep for something as dreary and dull as being _awake_?

She sighed and finally resettled herself, head practically buried beneath the covers. It had been so long since she'd had a decent night's sleep. She usually lay awake for hours on end with her mind running a thousand meters per second and a tightness in her chest that made it difficult to breathe. It tormented her, picked at every fiber of her being, and when she finally managed to fall into a fitful slumber, it was plagued with the most realistic nightmares. She hated it. She hated it so much and wished more than anything for it to go away. But life wasn't that kind to her, never had been, never would be.

She sucked in a quick breath and rolled back on to her side, awareness beginning to seep into her mind. As it did so, the gears in her brain started to turn and she opened her eyes a crack, not enough to see more than a sliver of light, but enough to realize that she was facing a wall. They closed and then reopened, wider this time, and focused on a crack in the wood. For a while, she simply stared at it, confused and still under the influence of sleep, not grasping what it truly meant.

But then it all clicked.

She sat up abruptly with a gasp and scrambled to the front of the bed until her back hit the headboard. From there, she drew her knees up to her chin and held the furs in a death grip, as if they were the only thing tethering her to reality. Her head whipped back and forth as she looked frantically around the room. Her eyes never settled on one thing for more than a second, allowing her to do a quick, yet likely not thorough, assessment of danger. When she finally seemed satisfied in that aspect, she calmed a little, but not enough to stop shaking like a cornered rabbit.

"Lass."

The voice was firm, but had an air of softness to it. Nevertheless, she jumped and let out a high pitched screech, obviously taken by surprise, and pulled her knees tighter against her body. Her arms wrapped around them and squeezed as tightly as they could, trying to bestow some form of security, or at least enough courage so she could stand a fighting chance. She watched with startled fawn's eyes as the other person in the room came closer. He went slowly, so as not to startle her further, and stopped when he was at the foot of the bed. He sat down, making sure to give her a wide berth, and folded his hands across his lap.

"Good morning, lass," he said, more gently this time, and she flinched away with a distressed cry.

"S-s-st," she stammered tearfully. "S-s-stay back!"

He frowned and held his hands up in what seemed like a calming gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"That's what they _all_ say!" She exclaimed. "Right before they go in for the kill! I—I've seen _Taken_. I know what they—_you_—do and I'm _begging_ you. Please just stay back!"

He sighed. "Don't you think that if I wanted to hurt you, I would've done so already?"

_I'm surprised that you haven't_, Stella thought. "Doesn't mean anything."

"It means _everything_." She could see that his patience was beginning to wear thin and shrank back. He shut his eyes for a moment, but quickly reopened them. "Believe me, Lass, if I wished you harm, I would have left you to rot in that cell at the mercy of the Stormcloaks. And if I'm not mistaken, you asked for my help in front of the Keep."

Stella blinked a few times and then looked down at the floor, desperate to avoid his piercing, yet surprisingly safe, gaze. "I did."

He smiled softly. "And did I not assist you?"

"You did."

"So what's your stance now?"

She tilted her head to the side and bit her lip. "My stance," she said slowly as she sat up straighter, "is that I'm a complete _idiot_." She grinned halfheartedly and relaxed a little. "I—I'm sorry. I just… I don't really know what's going on. I don't know how I ended up here, or even where _here_ is. To be honest, I'm not sure if this is real. I mean, this," she gestured around the room, "this has to be a dream. People… people don't _act_ like you do anymore. We don't carry swords or wear armor or speak like we're in _Game of Thrones_. There aren't giant talking lizards like the one downstairs and we don't use animal furs for blankets or straw for mattresses. We're _civili—_shit that's offensive—I mean, we're… different. _I'm…_ different."

"Lass—"

"I can _prove_ this is a dream."

Her eyes briefly left his again as she gathered up a fraction of the skin of her arm between her fingers and pinched. At first, the pain didn't register and she _almost_ grinned at him triumphantly. But then, after perhaps two seconds, it flared like a fire and she let go with a cry of surprise.

"Ow—fuck me!" She hissed as she rubbed at the sore spot, the reality of the result not quite sinking in yet. "Fucking hell!"

He raised an eyebrow at her word choice. "You were saying?"

She lifted her eyes back to his and they widened so much that the pupils shrank in the light. The terror had returned to them, instinctively forcing all rational thought from her mind. "This… this is _impossible!_" She gasped out as hysterics began to set in once again. "I-I-I don't—I can't… _what?_"

"Easy, Lass," he said. "You need to calm down."

"Calm down?" She shrieked incredulously. "_Calm down?_ Do you have _any_ idea what this means?" She waved her hand wildly in the air as if that could make him understand. "I'm not dreaming. I'm not freaking _dreaming!_ This… this is _real_. How on Earth can this be _real?_ I—this…"

Tears clouded her vision and with a distressed sob, she turned over on to her stomach and buried her face into her pillow. Though she absolutely abhorred crying, she couldn't help it. Everything was simply too much.

"Lass?"

The voice was concerned, but at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. If she was completely honest—which, granted, she never was—Stella was pretty sure that she'd finally lost her mind and there was no getting it back. The thought caused her sorrow to double in size and she bawled harder into her pillow. More than anything, she wanted to believe that this was all just a dream. More than anything, she wanted to be at school, battling another boring day. But more than all of that, she wanted to go _home_.

"G-God," she sniffled shakily. "If you're out there, p-please take me away from here! Take me a-_way_!"

"Lass—"

"And you!" She abruptly sat up and spun around to face him, her eyes tinted red. "Who the _hell _are you and how'd you get in here? I locked the door. I _remember_ doing it!"

"My name is Brynjolf," he said gently, patiently. "And yes, you did lock the door. But I…" he trailed off for a moment before continuing: "I asked Keerava for a spare key."

She scowled. "You could've just knocked!"

"I did."

Stella wiped the tears off her face with a flick of her wrist and studied him up and down. He _looked_ like he was telling the truth, but in her sixteen years of life experience, she'd come to learn that that usually didn't mean anything. People tended to appear the most sincere when they were lying to the best of their ability. Finding that out hadn't been fun, but it was necessary. Well, to her anyways.

"Alright then, _Brynjolf_," she said the name almost mockingly. "If—major freaking _if_—you're telling the truth, what do you want from me?"

"Something tells me you won't believe a word I say," he responded with a small grin. "That's smart."

She eyed him strangely. "Thanks… I guess. But you didn't answer my question. Are you going to?"

"That all depends on you, Lass." He shifted on the bed so that he was completely facing her. "You can accept that this is reality and hear me out, or you can continue to deny everything and waste both your time and mine." He stood and held out his hand. "Your choice."

After thinking about her options for a moment, she reluctantly placed her slender, delicate hand in his and he hauled her to her feet. With the way he lifted her with ease, it was almost as if she weighed nothing instead of one hundred pounds. She staggered, a little off-balanced, and Brynjolf steadied her, albeit a little roughly.

"Easy there," he said and Stella nodded, straightening so that she stood at her full height.

"Okay," she said and folded her arms across her chest. "I'm listening. What do you want with me?"

He shook his head. "This isn't really a place to chat. Why don't we go downstairs and I'll explain as much as I can over breakfast? You must be hungry.

She was about to protest and state that she wanted answers _now_, but her stomach growled, betraying her. "Fine."

.

.

.

.

.

Fifteen minutes saw them sitting at the most reclusive table in the tavern, her absently stirring a bowl of stew and him eating a piece of bread. Stella had taken approximately three bites of her food before asking what was in it. When Brynjolf had responded that it was venison, she'd blanched and very nearly spit it out. Ever since her uncle had taken her hunting one winter and given her a taste of deer meat, she'd never eaten it again. Well, until now, that is.

"Got a problem with venison, Lass?" Brynjolf finally asked and she jumped a little, caught up in the memory.

"A little," she admitted and put her spoon down. At his mildly curious stare, she continued: "I, uh—I mean, my uncle took me hunting one time when I was thirteen. He, uh, he shot a deer and took it home. After he skinned and gutted it and everything, he roasted it over an open fire like they used to do back in the old days. He gave a piece to me and it was absolutely _disgusting_. Too chewy, too… sinewy."

He laughed and took a bite of bread. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it when you didn't know what it was."

"I guess I just associate taste with memory." She glanced down at her bowl and begrudgingly picked up her spoon again. "But you paid money for this and it's better than eating bread." She took a bite. "Can't be rude to the guy that saved my life."

"So you trust me then?" He raised his eyebrows. "That was quick."

"I'm judging you less harshly. Don't mistake it for me letting my guard down."

He nodded and tore another piece of bread off the loaf. "Smart lass," he said and despite everything, Stella smiled.

"Thank you."

They stopped talking for a moment and Stella was grateful for the silence. She didn't like to speak for too long, thought she wasn't allowed to. Years of being interrupted at school and at home had rendered her ability to hold a conversation useless. But for some reason, it was relatively easy to talk with Brynjolf. The redhead was willing to listen and seemed to actually _like_ her opinions and stories. For the first time in a while, she actually found herself _enjoying_ a conversation and not wanting to get out of it as soon as possible.

Leave it to her to make friends with a full grown man, not kids her own age.

"So you must have a lot of questions," Brynjolf eventually said, breaking the silence and she nodded vigorously.

"_Tons_," she exclaimed. "I mean, wh—"

He held up a hand. "How about this: we'll take turns. I ask you one, you ask me one. That way we're both satisfied."

She opened her mouth to say something, a retort ripe on her lips, but shut it again. Honestly, the scenario was fair and they would both benefit from it. She would have her answers, he would have his. Win-win.

"Alright," she said slowly and spooned some stew into her mouth. "You can go first."

He paused, looking thoughtfully away from her, and she took the opportunity to study him. _Truly_ study him. He was built like a house and had an air of mischief that covered him like a sheet. Stella could easily determine that he'd been a troublemaker as a child and that he probably still was. But this didn't disturb her as much as it should have. No, she felt more intrigued than anything and, logic be damned, her instincts were telling her to trust him. Perhaps it was the calm, smooth voice or the laughing green eyes.

Or maybe she was just an idiot and going to get herself killed.

"...from, Lass?"

The words drifted to her mind and she blinked, too caught up in her observations to grasp all of what he'd said.

"What?" She asked, a little embarrassed.

"I wanted to know where you're from," he repeated with a knowing smile. "You're obviously not native to Skyrim, so where is it? Cyrodiil? High Rock?"

She shook her head. "I'm trying to pretend like I know what you're talking about, but I have no idea where any of those places are." She took another bite of stew. "I'm from Washington, Wenatchee actually. Small town, not very interesting, but it does alright."

"Never heard of it."

"Well then, we both don't know what the other is talking about. Good conversation."

He smiled. "I believe it's your turn, Lass."

She thought for a moment before speaking: "What city is this? Or town or village or whatever."

"It's called Riften and while it may not be Solitude, it's decent enough. Got everything you'll need: rooms, a decent blacksmith, and work if you're capable."

She frowned and scratched at her head, disturbing her already messy cropped hair. "What do you mean by 'capable?'"

"That's two questions," he said with a wink and she found herself grinning.

"I guess it is. Go on."

"Do you have any family?"

Stella was sure that a shadow crossed her face, for he immediately looked as though he regretted the question.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding sincere. "You don't have to answer if you don't—"

"No," she interrupted with a lengthy sigh. "I'll answer. I live with my uncle. Both of my parents are in the military and instead of making me move around all the time, they let me stay with him. That way, I don't have to constantly change houses and schools or lose all my friends... well, the ones that I have, anyway."

"Sounds like they care a lot about you."

"They do. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate them or anything. It's just... I never get to see them."

He nodded understandingly and finished off his bread. Stella dropped his gaze and lowered her eyes to her bowl of stew. It really wasn't all that bad, once she got used to the sinewy texture of the venison, and she ate about half of it before pushing it to the side. Brynjolf regarded her with a curious stare and brushed a lock of fiery hair behind his ear. "You don't eat much, Lass."

"Never have," Stella responded as she absently picked at a piece of venison that was stuck between her teeth. "I have a really bad gag reflex with plenty of triggers. Overeating happens to be one of them." She flicked the meat off her finger. "Watching what I eat and how much of it I actually ingest helps to regulate it. But as a result, I've never weighed more than a hundred pounds and I'll never exactly have the muscle mass of a body builder." She grinned at her own joke. "Noodle arms for the win."

He laughed, a deep guttural sound, and leaned back in his chair. Stella's smile grew and she let out a chuckle of her own, happy that someone finally found her funny and not a complete moron.

"Your turn, Lass."

"Umm..." She trailed off as she thought of something to say, something that wouldn't be as ridiculous out loud as it sounded in her head. She bit her lip in contemplation and scratched her head again, countless questions running through her mind. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was really only about a minute, she settled on: "What do you do around here?"

He tensed, but the action was so minuscule that at first she thought she'd imagined it. But as she studied him closer and saw the way that his jaw was slightly clenched and his hands were half curled into fists, she knew that she'd reached an awkward subject. As much as she wanted to tell him what he'd told her, that he didn't have to answer if he didn't want to, she was curious.

_What could he possibly do that's noteworthy of THAT kind of reaction?_ She thought and shivered a little. _Please don't let him be a hired thug or an assassin or something. I don't need that kind of shit right now_.

"There's no sense in lying to you," he eventually said. "Something tells me that you would see right through it."

_Probably not_, she mentally scoffed and almost laughed. "Damn right."

He smiled and fiddled with the ring on his finger. "Well, in that case, I suppose you could say larceny runs in my blood."

She frowned. "Larceny... you mean stealing?"

"And all that it encompasses," he murmured with a chuckle.

Despite the fact that he showed no signs of danger, Stella found herself leaning back a little in her seat. "So you, what, rob innocent people of their most treasured possessions with no regard to what their sentimental value might be?" She couldn't see her face, but knew that an incredulous look was forming on it. "Un-freaking-believable!"

"It's not _quite_ like that, Lass. First of all, we don't typically take from those who can't afford to lose a thing or two. Secondly, there are more jobs than just stealing, you know."

"'We?'"

"My... organization."

Stella raised an eyebrow and looked over at the bowl of stew. "Sounds shady."

"It is."

She nodded slowly and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. Although every logical fiber of her being was screaming at her to run fast and run far, a sense of trust was settling in her heart. For all the time that she'd known him, Brynjolf had been completely honest with her. Well, from what she could tell, at least. His profession didn't frighten her as much as it should. He was so open about it, almost as if it wasn't illegal at all, and she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't intrigued.

_What the hell,_ she thought with a shrug. _Doesn't seem like I'm going home any time soon anyways._

"So where do I come in?" She finally asked and he blinked in surprise.

"That's it?" He responded, confused, and Stella crossed her arms over her chest.

"Yes. What's so astounding about that?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Lass, nothing. It's just... well, you gave the impression that you were five seconds away from fleeing for your life. What changed your mind?"

She thought a moment before speaking. "Look man, I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask to be whisked away from everything I know and love to this God forsaken _Game of Thrones _world. But since this isn't a dream—though I'm still not one hundred percent sure about that—and you're the only person I've met that's actually treated me nicely..."

She trailed off as she contemplated her next statement. She could feel Brynjolf's eyes on her, his inquisitive stare, but she ignored it as she struggled to find the right thing to say.

"Point is," she finally resumed, albeit a little less confidently. "I, uh, I'm stuck here. I'm stuck here with no money, no job, and no freaking idea how to survive." She looked up and determinedly held his eyes. "Yes, you may be a thief. Yes, I've never stolen anything in my life. But that doesn't mean I can't _learn_. That doesn't mean I have to remain the helpless, _useless_ damsel in distress. If I'm going to live in this world, I'm going to need all the help I can get." She smiled slightly and uncrossed her arms, instead laying them on the table, relaxed. "And right now? You're all I've got."

When she finished speaking and took a moment to study his face, she found that a smirk was growing on his lips. "Well spoken, Lass," he said and casually leaned back in his chair. "Well spoken. I think..." The smirk widened into a full blown grin. "That you're going to make a fine addition to the family."

* * *

**Annnnd that's a wrap for this chapter! I hope that you liked it! **

**Reviews really mean a lot to me, so I would really appreciate it if you could leave one. They help and encourage me to write!**

**Until next time,**

**-Nopride**


	3. Chapter 2

"Okay, so, what do you want me to do again?" Stella asked as she stared at the slightly ragged, yet beautiful, green dress that was lying on her bed. Back when they were downstairs, Brynjolf had taken one look at her modern clothes and stated that she'd stick out like a sore thumb. He'd then disappeared for a few minutes, but quickly returned, carrying a bundle under his arm. They'd walked back up to her room and he'd unraveled it to reveal the long, soft dress that, if she was honest, _did_ look a bit more comfortable than her current attire. However, that didn't mean she _wanted_ to go incognito and part with her outfit. It had taken her _years _to perfect, to carefully select each article of clothing and match it with its proper mate. She liked to say that she wasn't too materialistic, but, truth be told, she was very conscious of her clothes.

And exchanging them for a medieval dress? It wasn't going to be easy.

"I don't believe I stuttered, Lass," Brynjolf said, interrupting her thoughts. "The task is simple. While I draw everyone's attention in the market, you're to break into Madesi's stall, steal his ring, and plant it on Brand-Shei. Then I'll get rid of the crowd, Brand-Shei will be taken care of, and we'll both walk away with the spoils." He smiled. "Understood?"

"Yeah," she said with a frown. "But why do I have to wear that thing? And why do you want to do that to what's his face?"

He chuckled and gave her a look that had _are-you-serious_ written all over it. "Lesson one of survival: blend in. With that getup, you'd be picked off by the guards in no time."

She looked down at her outfit and sighed, knowing he was right. Red high-tops, a jean miniskirt, a purple tank top, and a brown leather jacket definitely didn't fit with the attire she'd seen in the city. "Fine. But my other question?"

"One of our clients wants him put out of business. That's all you need to know."

She rolled her eyes, but nevertheless looked back at the dress again. "O-_kay_, but what if I can't do it? What if he catches me? I don't know about you, but I _really_ don't want to go back to those cells."

He laughed and leaned against the wall, an amused glint in his eyes. "Never picked anyone's pocket, eh?"

"Nope."

"Trust me on this one, Lass. You won't fail."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. For a while, Stella simply stared at it, a little unnerved by the now empty room, save for her. But then she shook her head and began to strip off her clothes until she was clad only in her bra and panties. She picked up the dress and begrudgingly pulled it on. The soft sensation of the fabric surprised her as well as how well it fit with her figure. She'd always had a narrow waist and small hips, which caused most clothes to hang loosely off her body. But the dress was well fitted, almost as if it was fashioned just for her and in that moment, adjusting to this strange land just got a tiny bit easier.

After she'd run her fingers through her short, messy hair, she looked around for shoes. Opening the small dresser next to her bed, she found a pair of brown boots that would have to suffice until she could ask Brynjolf for some of her own. She slipped them on—once again a miraculous fit—and stood, swaying a little, but quickly regaining her balance. With one last glance around the room, she opened the door and stepped out to meet Brynjolf. He was standing by the stairs, leaning against the wall with his arms folded casually over his chest and with his head slightly tilted back. Stella walked over to him a little uncertainly, not used to moving in a dress, and stopped a few feet away.

"Hey," she said and he glanced over at her, eyes drifting down to her borrowed shoes.

"That's called stealing, you know," he said and Stella smiled excitedly.

"Yeah, I've kinda figured that out," she responded. "I mean, if I'm going to be a thief in this world, I might as well start _somewhere _and, well, no one's _using _these so I figured that I could—"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Lass." He grinned to match her smile. "But there's hardly any thrill in taking something that easily. How about a job with a little more excitement?"

Her smile faltered a little as she thought of what lay ahead. "Right, uh, the ring." She contemplated it some more. "Look, do we have, like, a codename for this? Like 'Operation Ring' or something? Because I'm pretty sure that the guards won't be too happy with us for plotting this."

"Operation Ring," he echoed and chuckled. "I quite like that, actually."

"Wait, what? I was, I mean, that was just an example."

He laughed. "I know, Lass. I'm just giving you a hard time. Come on."

He began to walk down the stairs and she followed, albeit reluctantly, dragging her feet along the way. To say she was nervous would be an understatement. She was absolutely _terrified_. Terrified of breaking the law, terrified of screwing up, terrified of having to go back to those cells...

She shook her head. She didn't want to think about that, couldn't afford to. No, she had to focus on the task at hand, on 'Operation Ring.' She trailed a little ways behind Brynjolf as they exited the tavern, which, judging by the sign that swung with with the slight breeze in air, was called the Bee and Barb. Stella smiled a little as she followed Brynjolf to the open market. The name was fitting; she'd seen many barbed plants and bees in the town in the short time she'd gotten to take a look around.

She marveled at the bustling city as they crossed a wooden bridge to the marketplace. To her right, a blacksmith hammered away at a piece of red hot metal, molding it to take the shape he wanted. To her left, a row of houses lined the edge of the wall that surrounded the city. She wanted to stop walking and look at everything until her eyes were sore, but Brynjolf's quick pace told her that he was eager to get the job done. She reluctantly continued to follow him, tearing her gaze away from the houses and focusing it on the market.

It was small, but seemed sufficient enough. Brynjolf headed over to the one empty stall that stood like a lonely child. Stella hung back a little nervously while he pulled out three full pink bottles and set them on the counter. He beckoned her over and she stepped forward until they were close enough to talk without anyone hearing them.

"Alright, here's the plan, Lass," he said as he grabbed a bottle and held it out to her. "I'm going to create a distraction using this and while everyone's gathered around here, you're going to steal the ring. Easy enough, yeah?"

Stella frowned as she looked at the strange pink bottle. "What is it?"

"Falmer Blood Elixir," he responded as a woman walked by them and it was then that Stella saw the ingenuity of what he was doing. To anyone passing by, it would look like he was a simple merchant trying to sell her his product.

Brilliant.

"Fal-mer?" She tried out, the word tasting foreign. "What's that?"

"They used to be a race of Mer known as Snow Elves. Legend has it that they fled to the underground Dwemer cities and were then enslaved by the dwarves. But when the Dwemer vanished, they remained in their cities where years of living beneath the surface rendered them blind and twisted them beyond recognition. They eventually became known as the Falmer by scholars and everyone else just adopted the name."

"And this... _elixir_ is filled with their _blood_?" Disgust coated every word. "_Ew_."

"It's not really," Brynjolf soothed, putting the bottle back. "It's just a healing potion with a few extra ingredients mixed in. Nothing harmful."

"O-_kay_, but you're still gonna have to explain to me who—or what—the 'Dwemer' are—or were or whatever—because that _definitely_ makes for an interesting story."

"Deal. Now go mingle with the crowd, Lass. Can't let them on to our scheme now, can we?"

Stella nodded and left him to prepare his 'elixir.' Though it was early in the morning, the market was already filled with people. The merchants had long since set up their stalls and some were roping in customers by the fist-full. But one caught her eye, one who didn't seem to have as many people by his stand. Those that _were _there were probably waiting in line for the next merchant over, a rough looking woman whose scowl told that she couldn't tell the difference between sarcastic and mean.

Frowning, Stella wormed her way through the crowd until she was at the lonely merchant's stall. He glanced up at her and immediately straightened his relaxed posture, clearly not expecting a customer.

"Hello there," he said in a thick English accent. "What can I do for you?"

She nearly _screamed_ as she finally truly saw him, his blue skin and black eyes. But thankfully, she just gawked at him before remembering that she was supposed to be blending in, not making a complete fool out of herself.

"Uh," she stammered awkwardly. "H-hi. I, uh, I'm just kinda, you know, looking around."

He looked disappointed, but quickly regained his composure. "Ah, well take a look. You might find something that you like."

"Thanks."

There was a brief bout of silence, during which Stella took the opportunity to steel herself as she waited for Brynjolf's distraction. She glanced back over at his stall and saw that he was still prepping the elixir, but watching her at the same time. He tipped his head in a barely perceptible nod and she returned it before turning back to the lonely merchant. He was looking at her with a mixture of confusion and recognition, the latter of the two the most prominent.

"Aren't you that girl from yesterday?" He eventually asked with a frown. "The one that appeared out of thin air and scared the oblivion out of the guards?"

There was no sense in lying; he seemed as though he'd already made up his mind. "Yes," she said and raised her chin a little. "That was me. I, um, I'm sorry if I alarmed you."

He shook his head sadly and drummed his long fingers against the wooden stall. "Now now," he responded gently with a small smile. "There's no need for that. Actually, if you want my opinion, those guards were acting way out of line. It appears," his smile vanished, "that the Stormcloaks don't have any sense of tolerance whatsoever."

Stella frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you'd been a Nord, they would've dropped everything to assist you."

"Oh... so they're racist?"

"In all aspects of the word, especially against the Dark Elves."

Stella narrowed her eyes and looked down at the stall, contempt washing through her veins. If it was one thing she absolutely _hated, _it was racism, whether it was in the form of stereotypes, segregation, or just plain put-downs. She didn't stand for it—never had before—and being in a new, strange land wouldn't change her beliefs at all. _  
_

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely as she lifted her eyes to meet the merchant's. "I'm guessing that this is Nord territory. You must get a lot of shi—I mean—you've gotta have it rough, right?"

He shrugged. "It could be worse; I could live in Windhelm. Entire city's run by Nords."

"Sounds like a place I don't want to visit."

He smiled and nodded in agreement before leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. "What's your name, my child?"

"Stella," she responded and held her hand out to shake. "Stella Louise Cabral."

He raised an eyebrow, but grasped her outstretched hand in his own. He gave it a quick, light shake before returning to his previous position with his elbows on his stall.

"Stella Louise Cabral," he echoed and grinned. "I'm Brand-Shei. It's nice to make your acquaintance."

She froze and felt all of the blood drain from her face.

_"...you're to break into Madesi's stall, steal his ring, and plant it on Brand-Shei..."_

This man, this sweet, innocent man, was the one she was supposed to put out of business. Permanently. She blinked and took a deep breath, struggling to get herself under control before he discovered that anything was wrong. _  
_

"I know," he said with a sigh. "It's shocking, isn't it? I mean, Brand-Shei is hardly a name for a Dark Elf."

"Y-yeah," she stammered with wide eyes. "Yeah, it, uh, it kinda is." She silently reminded herself to breathe. "I'm... I'm sorry about my reaction. I'm still pretty new to this whole 'talking to people' thing. If you'll excuse me..."

She walked quickly away from his stall, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. She could feel his eyes on her as she went and groaned quietly to herself. It wasn't that she felt guilty—she hadn't done anything yet—but it wasn't exactly like her conscience was clear. If, major if, she went through with Brynjolf's scheme and framed Brand-Shei, she would have to live with that for the rest of her life. She would have to live with the guilt of having wronged someone for her own personal gain. And she wasn't sure if she could do it.

She stopped at another stall and leaned against it to rest her legs, which suddenly felt like they were going to give out on her. Resting her hands on her knees, she resisted the urge to sink to the ground. Her palms were clammy and hot and she nervously wiped them on the fabric of her dress. She couldn't afford to be nervous, not right now, not when Brynjolf was counting on her. For some odd reason, she didn't want to disappoint him. She was like a child eager to please their parents and, all things considered, she _was_ still technically a kid.

"Unless you're looking to buy something, get moving," a voice behind her hissed. "I've got other customers, you know."

She jumped and spun around, only to come face to face with a giant green lizard. "W-what?" She asked as her hands flew out in front of her like a shield. "I... what?"

"Are you deaf, Breton?" He snarled, peering down at her through black beady eyes. "I said if you're not going to buy anything, move along."

"I..." She didn't quite know how to respond. "At least let me _look _first."

He seemed irritated, but nodded nonetheless. "Hurry up."

Pretending to be interested in one of the necklaces out on display (it _was_ rather beautiful), she sneaked another glance at him. He wasn't even watching her, instead too busy focusing on other possible clients.

"So I take it you're Madesi," she stated, looking him in the eyes once again. "Am I right?"

"Depends on who's asking."

"My name is Stella. I'm new in town. Actually... I'm looking for a good jeweler."

His hostile demeanor instantly changed and his tone became friendly. "Ah, well you've come to the right place then."

Stella smiled. "No, I don't think I have. Sorry to waste your time."

She would have no problem robbing him.

"Everyone!" Brynjolf's voice suddenly cut through the loud murmur of the crowd. "Gather around here, quick!"

As the entire market congregated over to him, Stella took the opportunity to duck down low and sneak around to the back of Madesi's stall. There wasn't much there; just a small metal box that was secured by what looked like a heavy lock.

_Fuck my life and everyone in it!_ She thought angrily. _He didn't mention this or at least give me anything to pick the damn thing!_

Huffing a sigh of annoyance, she reached up into her hair and pulled out the bobby pin that she used to keep her bangs back. Without it, they fell into her eyes and she impatiently tucked them behind her ear. She carefully snapped the pin in two, shoved one part of it in as a stabilizer, and then began to work the other one through the keyhole. It took a while, she was out of practice and didn't have Google handy, but she finally managed to unlock it and pry the lid open. Inside was some gold, a couple pieces of metal that looked like picks, and the ring she was supposed to steal. She quickly swiped all of the items and shut the lid, remembering at the last second to re-lock it.

Keeping low, she navigated around the crowd to where Brand-Shei was sitting. Ducking behind some crates, Stella carefully moved as close as she could get to him and, after taking in a deep breath, deposited the ring in his pocket. If he noticed, he gave no sign and she took that as her cue to get out of there. She crept along the small wall that surrounded the market and reemerged on the other side of it so it would look like she was just arriving. Brynjolf glanced over at her and their eyes met briefly before he closed his distraction.

"Well, that's about all the time I have left for today," he said and casually shoved the elixirs aside. "Come by tomorrow and we'll see if we can strike a deal."

As the crowd dispersed, muttering something along the lines of 'filthy con artist,' Stella began to walk over to Brynjolf's stall. But before she even took three steps, a voice called out: "Empty your pockets, Brand-Shei."

She froze, counted to ten, and turned on her heel in time to watch the Dark Elf pull the ring out of his pocket.

"What the—" he sputtered, looking confused. "This isn't mine!"

She heard a guard say that he was under arrest, but didn't stick around to watch him be apprehended. Instead, she continued to walk toward Brynjolf, not once glancing back over her shoulder.

_I'm sorry_, she thought. _I'm so, so sorry._

She reached Brynjolf's stall and leaned heavily against it, shutting her eyes and blocking out the world. She could feel his gaze on her, worry likely hidden behind the green mask of his irises. At the moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. What she'd just done... it was wrong, immoral, unjust. Hell, she could think of a thousand synonyms for it and it _still_ wouldn't begin to cover what she was feeling.

"Lass?"

The name drifted to her ears and she reluctantly opened her eyes. "What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Sort of," she said with a small smile. "I mean, on one hand, I'm thrilled that I actually did it, but on the other... I feel kinda guilty."

He frowned. "For what?"

"He—Brand-Shei, I mean—was nice to me. Madesi was a prick. Why couldn't we have put _him_ out of business?"

Brynjolf sighed knowingly and gently placed his hands on her shoulders in what seemed like a comforting gesture. "I can understand where you're coming from; my first job wasn't exactly easy either."

Now it was Stella's turn to frown. "What happened?"

He chuckled and lowered his hands to his side. "That's a story for another day. For now, I think it's time we introduce you to the rest of the family."

She grinned and eagerly followed him as he stepped out of his stall and began to walk out of the market.

_Family_, she thought. _So that means we're going home_.

And for the first time in a while, it truly felt like it.


End file.
